Last year, when her name had been called as a finalist in the Miss Teen Georgia pageant, she’d been able to look simply pleased and humble rather than thrilled to bits. When she only placed second runner-up in the final round, all anyone could see was her happiness for the new queen, despite the fact that she disliked the girl intensely and believed the well-endowed baton-twirler had only won through family connections and some shameless flirtation with a judge.

Soon after that, at the funeral of her beloved grandfather, she’d presented the perfect picture of the dignified mourner, sorrowful and grieving, but still able to greet guests in the church with a sad smile, even as she fought back the urge to throw herself on the coffin and sob hysterically. 

And less than a month ago, when she was declared Senior Prom Queen in the high-school gymnasium, she was able to appear completely and utterly surprised. She widened her eyes, her mouth dropped open slightly and she put a hand over her heart, as if she was overwhelmed emotionally. No fake tears though. It was just enough and not too much. No one could have guessed that her best friend, one of the vote counters, had alerted her well in advance of her imminent coronation.

And today, as she and the seven other interns were taken on a tour of the Gloss magazine offices, she assumed a calm air of avid interest without gaping or gawking. But there came a point when her carefully honed restraint was seriously challenged.

‘And this . . .’ Miss Caroline Davison, the managing editor, paused at a door. Flourishing an invisible magic wand with one hand, she turned the knob with the other.

‘This is the famous Gloss samples closet.’

Sherry joined the others in a collective gasp which became something close to a shriek of pure and utter amazement. First of all, it wasn’t a closet, it was a room three times the size of the largest office the interns had seen. And its contents were beyond belief.

Miss Davison had to raise her voice to be heard over all the ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’.

‘It’s where we keep all the items sent to us by designers and clothing companies in the hope that we’ll feature them in the magazine. What you see before you is a good representative sample of the apparel industry.’

That was an understatement, Sherry thought. She’d call it fashion paradise. Dresses, skirts, gowns, blouses, trousers and coats hung from the rods. On the shelves lay shoes and handbags, mounds of sweaters and a large glass case containing jewellery. She tried to catch the eye of her roommate, but Donna was looking down, as if she was unworthy to feast her eyes upon such gorgeousness.

The girls spread out, and it was interesting to see who was attracted to what. Vicky, the tanned California girl with sun-streaked hair, made a beeline in the direction of a rack of bathing suits. Sweet-faced Ellen from Texas, whose dark hair was adorned with tiny matching bows over each spit curl, was clearly thrilled by a tray of brightly coloured hair ornaments, ribbons and barrettes. Sherry turned her attention to the pale blue two-piece ensemble that had adorned the cover of the March issue. She remembered considering a trip to Atlanta, to see if Rich’s Department Store carried the outfit, but decided that three-quarter sleeves wouldn’t be very wearable in a hot Georgia summer. Of course, that was before she knew for sure that she’d be spending the summer in New York City.

The girl with the perfectly sculpted bouffant on Sherry’s right, Linda, murmured, ‘Do you think they’ll let us wear any of this stuff?’

And Diane, the girl on her left, whispered, ‘Dibs on the blue suit.’

But any hopes they might have were quickly dashed when one platinum-haired intern stepped forward and picked up a low-heeled pump. Examining the sole, she squealed in delight

‘Five and a half! That’s my size.’

Linda spoke into Sherry’s ear. ‘Can you believe that hair?’

Sherry smiled. The girl had clearly gone overboard with peroxide and Sherry was reminded of her little sister’s Bubble Cut Barbie. This girl even had Barbie’s trademark sweep of black liner over her eyes and the doll’s bright pink lips.

‘Five and a half is the standard sample shoe size,’ the editor informed her. ‘But, girls, let me warn you – this isn’t a lending library. These items aren’t for borrowing.’

Pamela – that was the name on the platinum-blonde’s tag – sighed dramatically. ‘Never?’

Miss Davison lips twitched slightly. ‘Rarely, which is almost the same thing. We’ve been known to bend the rules on occasion, but only for some extraordinary event and with special permission. Or when you’re doing something exceptional on behalf of Gloss. And of course the item would have to be returned in pristine condition.’

‘An extraordinary event,’ Pamela repeated. ‘Like what?’

‘Talk about pushy,’ Linda murmured. ‘And that skirt she’s wearing!’

Sherry smiled without commenting. The skirt was awfully tight. And the low-cut blouse wasn’t exactly office attire either.

Sherry had chosen her own first-day-at-Gloss outfit with care and some trepidation. Was her madras skirt outdated? Everyone back home still wore skirts like this, but she hadn’t seen any madras lately in the pages of Gloss. She’d topped it with a navy-blue sleeveless shell, and accessorized with navy tassel loafers and a matching pocketbook. She was relieved to see bare legs in loafers on a couple of other girls, and while no one else wore madras, at least three of them had on print skirts with blouses or shells that picked up one of the colours in the print.

The editor brushed Pamela’s question aside. ‘I don’t think we need to get into that now. We have more important things to go over today. Other questions?’

A petite redhead with a close-cropped pixie cut raised her hand. Sherry thought she too was dressed strangely, in black capri pants and a black-and-white striped T-shirt. She’d never seen anything like that in Gloss.

‘How do you choose which items will go in the magazine?’

That was exactly what Sherry had been wondering. Why hadn’t she spoken up? Of course, she knew why – it was because well-brought-up Southern girls didn’t call attention to themselves.

Miss Davison nodded at the redhead with approval. ‘That’s a good question, Allison, and one of the main topics we’ll be covering during your apprenticeship. We don’t have time to go into this in any detail now, but I’ll give you an example.’ She turned to Sherry. ‘Do you see that black oblong quilted handbag with the chain handle on the shelf?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

The response that revealed the region of her upbringing slipped out automatically, and she heard a muffled giggle from one of the other girls. Miss Davison smiled too, but kindly.

‘You can call me Caroline,’ she said.

‘All of us or just Sherry?’ Pamela asked.

Sherry couldn’t help being amused by the girl’s impudence. And the editor actually smiled.

‘All of you, of course. Sherry, pass the bag to me.’

‘Yes –’ This time she caught herself before the ‘ma’am’ could slip out. ‘Yes, Miss Davison – I mean, Caroline.’

She took up the bag and brought it to the editor. The woman held it aloft for all to see. ‘This is a bag that was designed by the great Coco Chanel. Although it’s quite lovely, we decided not to feature it in Gloss, since we didn’t see it as appealing to our readership. As you all know, Gloss is aimed at the American teenager, and this bag is well beyond the means of our readers.’

‘How much is it worth?’ Pamela wanted to know, but the editor was distracted by the appearance of a new figure at the doorway.

‘Hi.’

All the interns turned to the young man, and Sherry wasn’t surprised to see some eyes light up. He was very good-looking, with blond hair, and he was as tanned as Vicky-from-California. A lazy grin revealed deep dimples. For Sherry, he brought to mind the dreamy surfer guys in all those beach movies – more California than New York.

‘The new girls, right?’ He addressed Caroline Davison, but his eyes rested on the younger females.

The editor’s lips tightened for a second. ‘The new interns. Everyone, this is Ricky Hartnell. He’s . . .’ she paused, as if she was trying to come up with some way to explain him. ‘He’s an office assistant.’

‘Editorial assistant,’ the boy corrected her. ‘At least, I think that’s my title.’

‘We’re very busy right now, Ricky,’ Caroline said briskly. ‘I’m sure you’ll have an opportunity to meet everyone individually later.’

‘Looking forward to it,’ he said with a wink at the girls. ‘See you around, ladies.’

‘Cute,’ Diane whispered in Sherry’s ear.

Sherry nodded, but mentally she added, ‘And he knows it.’ Mama was always warning her about making snap judgements, but in this particular case she felt reasonably sure her assessment was accurate.

Miss Davison waved them out of the samples closet. ‘This finishes the tour. Since you only arrived yesterday, I’m not planning to keep you here for a full working day. But keep in mind that we’ll be working on a very special issue of Gloss, the annual readers’ issue. You will be representing two million subscribers who depend on Gloss for advice on everything from fashion and beauty to planning for the future. It’s a huge responsibility and I hope you’re ready for it.’

There was a general bobbing of heads. A balding man with glasses passed by, and Caroline called out to him.

‘George, could I have a minute?’

The man frowned. ‘I’m in the middle of something, Caroline.’

‘I’ll be quick. Girls, this is George Simpson, our features editor. George, these are the young women who will be working as summer apprentices.’

His disinterested eyes swept over them. ‘Who can type?’ He nodded at the show of hands. ‘Good. And I assume you’re all familiar with the alphabet, which means you can file.’

‘Mail!’

This announcement came from a tall, dark-haired boy with deep-set eyes. He wore an oversized grey jacket with ‘Hartnell Publications’ embroidered over a pocket, and he was gripping the handles of a cart filled with envelopes and boxes.

‘Leave mine on my desk,’ Mr Simpson told him.

The boy stared at him. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know your name. I’m new here.’

‘That’s no excuse,’ the man barked. ‘If you’re going to deliver the mail, you need to know to whom you’re delivering it.’

The boy flinched as if he’d been physically attacked. Caroline seemed to take pity on him. ‘This is George Simpson, the features editor,’ she told him. ‘And I’m Caroline Davison, managing editor. All the editors’ names are on their office doors, and everyone in the central room has a nameplate on his or her desk. And you are . . . ?’

Sherry could see his Adam’s apple bob before he said, ‘Michael Dillon.’

‘How do you do, Michael. These young women are interns here at Gloss.’

The boy didn’t meet their eyes, but he muttered, ‘Pleased to meet you,’ before continuing to roll his cart down the corridor.

‘Well, now that we’re all great chums, I’ve got work to do,’ Mr Simpson said, and walked away.

Sherry didn’t miss the withering glance Caroline gave him before turning back to the interns. ‘And so do you all. Here’s your first assignment: I want a five-hundred-word review of the film you saw this morning by noon tomorrow. Keep in mind that one review will be selected to appear in the readers’ issue. You can stay here to work at your desk of course, or back at your residence hall if you prefer. You might want to spend the afternoon settling in, or exploring the city, and write your piece tonight. It’s up to you.’

The girls dispersed and headed to the desks they’d been assigned earlier in what was called the bullpen, the large open space filled with rows of desks, where the secretaries and junior staff worked. Linda walked alongside Sherry.

‘Diane and I are going to Times Square. Want to come with?’

It was one of the famous landmarks on Sherry’s must-see list, and she nodded. ‘Sure. Just let me get my stuff together.’

‘We’ll meet you outside, in front of the building,’ Linda said.

Sherry fumbled through the papers on her desk, and in the process she knocked over the pencil holder. As she bent down to retrieve the contents, the good-looking editorial assistant, or whatever his title was, appeared by her side.

‘Need some help?’ he asked.

‘It’s all right,’ she murmured. Of course, a Southern gentleman would have ignored what she said and bent down to pick up the items. Surfer guy did not. But as she rose, she murmured, ‘Thank you anyway.’

‘You’re welcome, Sherry Ann Forrester.’

She stiffened as she realized he was staring at her chest, until she remembered that her name tag was there.

‘First time in New York, Sherry Ann?’

‘Yes, this is my first visit,’ she told him. ‘And it’s just Sherry,’ she added. Which wasn’t quite true. All her life, she’d been called Sherry Ann. But it was so Southern, to have a double first name, that she’d decided to drop the Ann for the summer.

Unfortunately the name tag had been prepared before her arrival. Not to mention the fact that there wasn’t much she could do about her accent.

‘Where are you from?’ he asked.

‘Georgia. North of Atlanta.’

‘So you’re a Southern belle,’ he said with a grin.

Mentally she bemoaned the fact that a Gone with the Wind revival had taken place in movie theatres all across the country just the year before. Every girl who crossed the Mason-–Dixon line was now subject to comparison with Scarlett O’Hara. Even the taxi driver who’d brought her from LaGuardia Airport the day before had reacted with a comment when he heard her speak. At the time, she’d thought it was cute. Maybe it was Ricky’s cocky smile that made his remark annoying.

‘No, just an ordinary girl from the South,’ she said lightly.

‘You don’t have a plantation? With cotton fields, and slaves, and a mammy to pick up after you?’ At a desk not far from hers, a dark-skinned secretary looked up sharply.

Sherry tried to keep her tone light. ‘This is 1963, Ricky, not 1863. We don’t live like that any more.’

‘You still talk like it,’ he pointed out. ‘And it’s cute. You’re cute.’

She couldn’t tell if he was flirting or just teasing, and she fought back the automatic instinct to thank him for the compliment.

‘Excuse me,’ she murmured, and stuffed the papers in her handbag.

The other interns had all taken off by then, but as she passed through the swinging doors into the hallway she spotted the blonde bombshell waiting by the bank of elevators. She knew how Pamela would be labelled back home. In a picture dictionary, she would be the illustration for a ‘skag’, the word of the moment for a girl with a less-than-sterling reputation. The bleached hair, the revealing top (which Sherry strongly suspected covered a pair of falsies), the way she jiggled when she walked, which indicated the absence of a girdle.

But she wasn’t back home, and she was going to have to get accustomed to being around the kinds of folks she’d never known before. Assertive career women like Caroline Davison, cocky boys like Ricky . . . new people, new experiences, that was what this summer was all about.

Turning, Pamela blocked the elevator door that was about to close with her arm.

‘Hey, hurry up, I’m holding this for you.’

Sherry hurried forward. ‘Thanks,’ she said, stepping inside.

Pamela hit the lobby button. ‘So how about that samples closet? Swift, huh?’

‘Very impressive,’ Sherry agreed.

‘I’ve got my eye on that purple gown with the rhinestones,’ Pamela declared.

‘But where would you wear something like that?’ Sherry wondered. ‘It’s not like we’ll be going to any senior proms while we’re here.’

‘Are you kidding? We’re in New York, the most glamorous city in the world! There are millions of places to wear a gown. El Morocco, the 21 Club, Sardi’s . . .’

Sherry looked at her with interest. ‘How do you know about these places?’

‘I’ve read about them, mostly in movie magazines. New York is full of nightclubs, cocktail lounges, fancy restaurants. I’ve made a list.’

‘You really think they’ll take us to places like that?’

Pamela grinned. ‘I doubt it, but I’ll get there on my own. Well, hopefully not completely on my own, if you know what I mean.’

‘I’ve never been to a nightclub in my life,’ Sherry confessed.

‘Neither have I,’ Pamela said. ‘The closest thing to a nightclub in my hometown is a strip joint and a couple of bars where old guys gamble in a back room. And that’s what I’ll be going back to when this summer is over. So I’m planning to take advantage of what the Big Apple has to offer while I’ve got the chance.’

‘You’ll need an escort,’ Sherry remarked. ‘Like you said, you can’t go to those kinds of places alone, can you?’

‘Of course not,’ Pamela agreed. ‘And anyway, I gotta find someone to foot the bill. Like a sugar daddy.’

Sherry tried not to look shocked. ‘You mean, an old rich man?’

‘Well, I’d prefer a young good-looking one,’ Pamela said cheerfully. ‘Did you notice that photographer at the dinner last night? He looked pretty fine to me.’

‘He’s got to be at least thirty,’ Sherry pointed out. ‘Wouldn’t you rather go out with someone your own age?’

Pamela considered this. ‘That Ricky wasn’t bad,’ she acknowledged.

‘What about that boy from the mailroom?’

Pamela made a face. ‘He looks like a hood.’

Sherry thought back. Maybe his hair was a little greasy. And he hadn’t smiled at all. She wasn’t sure why she’d even mentioned him.

‘Besides,’ Pamela continued, ‘boys who work in mailrooms don’t have any money. Anyway, I’m not looking for a boyfriend. I just want to have some fun.’

The elevator doors opened, and as they stepped out into the lobby Sherry was regarding her with curiosity. Who didn’t want a boyfriend? This comment intrigued her and she wanted to hear more. Maybe she should invite Pamela to join her and the others on their jaunt to Times Square. But recalling Linda’s comments back in the samples closet, she had a feeling the blonde wouldn’t exactly be welcome.

In any case, Pamela had her own plans for the afternoon. ‘Wanna go shopping?’ From her handbag she withdrew the discount-coupon booklet they’d each been given the night before. ‘If I’m going to hit the hotspots, I’ll need something to wear.’

‘Thanks, but I’ve got plans,’ Sherry said. They walked out of the building and on to Madison Avenue, baking under the hot July sun. ‘Maybe I’ll see you at dinner,’ she told Pamela. ‘Of course, I’m referring to the dining hall at the residence, not Sardi’s,’ she added with a grin.

Pamela laughed. ‘OK, dining hall tonight. But mark my words, we’ll make it to Sardi’s before the summer’s over.’ She strode off, and Sherry wasn’t surprised to note that her hips actually twitched. The girl positively exuded confidence.

She didn’t see Linda and Diane in front of the building, but then she spotted them, waving to her from across the street, in front of a drugstore. As she walked to the corner crosswalk, she barely felt her feet on the pavement. It was too hard to believe that she was really, truly walking on a street in New York City.

She’d seen images of New York of course, in photos and movies and on TV, and she’d thought she was prepared for it. But the impact was so much more than she had anticipated. How could she have known that looking up at skyscrapers would make her dizzy? How could she have imagined the cacophony of horns and the rumble of trucks, the drivers who stuck their heads out of the windows and yelled in frustration at the vehicle in front of them? From the sidewalks, the buzz of a million simultaneous conversations. Everyone seemed to be moving in accelerated motion, like they were all late for some terribly important appointment. Construction noises, drilling and hammering . . . all of it punctuated by intermittent sirens.

She joined the crowd at the corner. Even when the light turned green, she didn’t want to step into the street before looking both ways. Could she trust these angry New York drivers to actually stop? But she had no choice – she was swept across with the crowd.

As she headed towards Linda and Diane, she tried to remember what she knew about the girls. Not much, really. All eight girls, including herself, had introduced themselves at the welcome dinner the night before, but their respective hometowns and interests had become a bit of a blur in her mind.

It didn’t really matter. She knew instinctively that Linda and Diane were the kind of girls she would hang out with. They weren’t Southern, but in every other way they fit the mould of Sherry’s clique back home. Diane’s auburn hair was styled in a chin-length flip, just like her own, and she wore a light green shirtwaist dress that was identical to the light blue one in Sherry’s closet. And resting on the round collar of Linda’s crisp white blouse was a gold circle pin very similar to the one in Sherry’s jewellery box. She’d bet anything they’d both been cheerleaders at their high schools, or homecoming queens, or members of their local department store’s Teen Board – popular, all-American girls, just like she was. Typical Gloss girls.

They were both looking a little impatient, and Linda had another reason to appear unhappy.

‘I had to buy some aspirin – this noise is giving me a headache,’ she said. ‘Now I need something to wash them down with.’

‘There’s a diner over there,’ Diane said, pointing up the street. They started in that direction.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ Sherry apologized. ‘That boy Ricky wouldn’t stop talking.’

Their expressions changed. ‘Well, aren’t you the lucky one!’ Linda exclaimed. ‘He’s only the most eligible guy here.’

‘I guess he’s cute,’ Sherry conceded. ‘Seems kind of conceited though.’

‘He’s got a right to be,’ Diane said. ‘Didn’t you catch his last name? Ricky Hartnell. As in Hartnell Publications. The name over the door to the building. He’s the boss’s son.’

‘Oh.’ She tried to look suitably impressed. ‘Well, he’s not my type. Too full of himself.’

‘Don’t be so quick to brush him off,’ Linda advised. ‘He’d be a real catch.’

‘Except I’m not fishing,’ Sherry told her. She tugged on the chain around her neck and pulled out the ring that had been hidden under her blouse.

Linda’s eyebrows went up. ‘Going steady, huh?’ She immediately topped that, fingering a thin gold chain around her neck and lifting the pendant from which dangled two Greek letters.

‘You’re lavaliered,’ remarked Sherry, impressed.

‘He’s a Sigma Chi at the University of Illinois,’ Linda told her. ‘I’ll be starting there in September.’

They entered the diner, which wasn’t too busy, and took seats at the counter.

‘Do you have Tab?’ Linda asked the waitress.

‘Yeah. Three Tabs?’

Personally, Sherry would have preferred a real Coke and not this new sugar-free version, but she could just imagine the disapproving looks from the other girls. Any opportunity to avoid calories was to be taken advantage of – another rule.

‘You’re lucky to be already dating a college boy,’ Diane said to Linda. ‘You guys must be pretty serious.’

‘He’ll give me his frat pin next year,’ Linda informed them. ‘And we’ll get engaged when I’m a senior. Then, when I graduate, we’ll move to Chicago, where Bill will be in law school. I’ll teach elementary school for a couple of years. Then we’ll want to start a family, so we’ll move to the suburbs. Probably Lake Forest.’

Diane made no effort to hide her envy. ‘You’ve got your whole life planned.’

Linda nodded happily as their drinks arrived.

‘University of Illinois,’ Sherry repeated. ‘That’s a huge school, isn’t it? What do you want to do there?’

Linda lowered her voice, as if she was about to reveal some amazing secret. ‘I want to become the sweetheart of Sigma Chi.’

Sherry had been thinking more along the lines of what Linda would major in, but she nodded politely. ‘That would be pretty neat.’

‘No kidding,’ Diane exclaimed. ‘There’s a Sigma Chi where I’m going, Ohio State. My sister’s already there, and she told me that every year, when they choose their new sweetheart, the whole fraternity sings to her outside her dorm.’

Linda nodded. ‘Or outside the sorority house –’ her forehead puckered – ‘which is something I’m really worried about.’

‘Getting into a sorority?’ Sherry asked.

Linda shook her head. ‘Oh, I’ll get into one. The big question is, which one will I choose? Bill, that’s my boyfriend, he says the sweetheart is usually a member of Kappa Kappa Gamma. But I’m a Tri-Delt legacy. And my mother would just about kill me if I don’t pledge Tri-Delt.’

Sherry understood. A friend back home, Tommie Lynn, had told her about legacies. If your mother had been a member of a certain sorority, you were pretty much guaranteed an invitation to join that one. Tommie Lynn had been very relieved to know that the Chi Omega chapter at the University of Georgia was one of the best sororities, since her mother had been a Chi O at another school.

Diane bit her lower lip. ‘My mother didn’t go to a university.’

‘But you won’t have any problem getting into a sorority,’ Linda assured her. ‘Didn’t you tell me you were captain of your cheerleading squad? They’ll all want you. What about you, Sherry? Do you know what you want to pledge?’

‘There aren’t any Greek organizations where I’m going,’ Sherry told her. ‘It’s a small women’s college in Atlanta.’

Something close to horror crossed her companions’ faces.

‘It’s a family tradition,’ Sherry explained. ‘My grandmother went there, and my mother.’

Their expressions didn’t change.

‘But my boyfriend’s going to Georgia Tech,’ Sherry added. ‘I’m sure he’ll join a fraternity there.’

Their faces cleared. ‘Oh, well, that’s OK then,’ Linda said. ‘You’ll have a social life. Is there a Sigma Chi chapter at Georgia Tech?’

‘I don’t know,’ Sherry admitted. She could have been having this exact same conversation with friends back home. ‘Y’all ready to go to Times Square?’

Diane giggled. ‘“Y’all” – that’s so cute!’

Wishing fervently that other regions had accents as distinctive as the South, Sherry just smiled and fished in her bag for change. The girls paid and left the diner.

‘There’s a taxi stand across the street,’ Linda pointed out.

‘Oh, let’s just take the subway,’ Sherry urged. It was another item on her must-see list, and besides, she was on a budget. She checked her map. ‘There’s an entrance on the next block and Times Square is just two stops from here.’

‘What do you think of the other girls?’ Diane asked as they walked.

Recalling her efforts to not make snap judgements, Sherry demurred. ‘Kind of too soon to tell, isn’t it?’

But Linda already had formed opinions. ‘Some of them don’t look like Gloss girls to me. That platinum blonde, for example. She seems kind of trashy.’

‘And the girl from Boston, she looks like a beatnik,’ Diane added. ‘The artsy type, you know? Probably writes poetry.’

‘Which one’s your roommate?’ Linda asked Sherry.

‘Donna. Tall and thin, long brown hair . . .’

Linda frowned. ‘I don’t remember her.’

‘She’s kind of quiet,’ Sherry admitted. Actually, Donna was more than quiet. In the twenty-four hours since they’d met, she’d barely been able to get a word out of her.

They descended the steps to the subway, purchased tokens and passed through the turnstiles. Then it was down more steps to the tracks. 

Immediately Linda wrinkled her nose. ‘It smells down here,’ she murmured.

She was right, but Sherry was too distracted by the New Yorkers waiting on the platform to take much notice. She’d never seen so many different-looking people in one place – young and old, all shapes and sizes and colours. People who looked prosperous standing right alongside people who looked like beggars. There were people like this back home – you just never saw them in the same place. It was a lot to take in. 

There was a distant but thunderous noise, and seconds later the train pulled into the station. The doors opened, and the crowd on the platform surged forward, propelling the girls into the car.

There were no empty seats, so they all clutched hanging straps as the train jolted forward. And it was too noisy to talk. But the trip was so fast it didn’t matter – within a few minutes they arrived at the 42nd Street station. Once again, it wasn’t necessary to make any effort to leave the train – they were pushed out by people behind them, and then up some stairs, across a platform, up more stairs and finally they emerged on to a street.

And what a street it was. Even in broad daylight, it was completely lit up, with neon signs and marquees and enormous billboards advertising everything from soft drinks to cigarettes. If Madison Avenue had been energetic, the corner of Broadway and 42nd Street was positively manic. Instinctively, the three girls linked arms as they proceeded through Times Square.

There were a lot of movie theatres, all featuring films that Sherry couldn’t imagine appearing on a screen back home, with names like Circus of Sex, Wild Pussycats and Tantalizing Teens. They passed storefronts and businesses that made no attempt to disguise what lay beyond their doors: peep shows, topless bars, sex shops. At tables on the sidewalks, shady-looking men urged passers-by to gamble their money on card games. And in practically every doorway stood a scantily clad and heavily made-up woman. Sherry tried not to stare, but it was impossible. These women made Barbie Doll back at Gloss look like Little Miss Goody-Two Shoes.

‘This is gross,’ Diane whispered, and Sherry could understand her reaction. It was all nasty and seedy and disgusting. And yet, it was like passing a car accident on a road – you couldn’t help but look.

A man with a pockmarked face and a creepy smile fell into step alongside them. ‘Hey, pretty ladies, where you heading?’

‘None of your business!’ Linda snapped.

He wasn’t put off. ‘New in town, huh?’ As he linked his arm through Diane’s, she let out a shriek that would have summoned the entire population of Sherry’s hometown to her side. On this street, no one seemed to have heard her, but at least it sent the man away.

‘I want to get out of here,’ Diane wailed. ‘Now!’

Personally Sherry thought she was overreacting, but she put an arm around the sobbing girl. ‘C’mon, let’s head back to the subway and we’ll go to the residence.’

‘I have a better idea,’ Linda declared. ‘We’ll go to the Plaza Hotel and have tea. My parents always do that when they’re in New York.’ She went to the kerb and flagged down a yellow cab.

Sherry walked Diane to the taxi, but she herself didn’t get in with them.

‘Aren’t you coming?’ Linda asked.

‘Um, no, I think I’ll go back to the room and work on the assignment,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you at dinner.’

She watched as the taxi sped away. The Plaza Hotel was another item on her must-see list, and she wouldn’t have minded spending a little money on a cup of tea there. Only a few years ago, she’d read the stories about Eloise, a little girl who lived at the Plaza, to her kid sister, and she’d been just as enthralled as little Beth.

So why hadn’t she felt like going with the others?

Chapter Two

On the second floor of the residence, Sherry stopped in front of room 212 and unlocked the door.

For a moment, she just stood there and surveyed the room. Gloss had guaranteed pleasant accommodations in the letter, and the magazine had lived up to its promise. Two single beds, two desks, two bureaux, a decent-sized closet and an adjoining bathroom. The beds were covered with blue and yellow patterned spreads, the walls were painted a matching yellow, and the curtains at the small window picked up the blue colour.

It certainly didn’t compare to what she had back home though – a big, lovely pink and white room that she’d never had to share. Her record player, her own pink princess phone extension, her homecoming queen crown hanging from one side of the movie-star mirror on her vanity table, and the newly added prom-queen crown on the other side. The huge picture window, with rose-patterned curtains that provided the perfect frame for the dogwood trees outside. This room had a window, but it looked out on an alley lined with garbage cans.

Glancing at the clock radio on the desk, she saw that it was now five thirty. What would she be doing right now, back home? Playing tennis at the country club, with Elaine or Carol or Tommie Lynn? Or just finishing a game probably, since she’d have to be home and at the dinner table by six thirty. Maybe she and her tennis partner would be indulging in a sundae or a milkshake at the club snack bar, assuring each other they were simply replacing the calories they’d burned on the court.

Then home, where she might find a letter from Johnny. He hadn’t been very good about writing since he left for that summer job in Washington DC, but she supposed working for a congressman was pretty time-consuming.

She remembered the day he told her about the job, the morning after the senior prom. It had been a spectacular evening. She’d worn floor-length pink taffeta, purchased for the occasion on a special shopping trip to Atlanta, with the wrist corsage of pink tea roses that Johnny presented her when he arrived to pick her up. He’d looked so handsome, in the light blue tuxedo he’d rented. They’d danced all night in the gym, which had been decorated beyond recognition with sparkling lights and streamers and balloons. In accordance with tradition, there were no curfews that night, and they’d ended the festivities at three in the morning at a fancy breakfast set up in Tommie Lynn’s basement. And at some point in the early hours, when she and Johnny found themselves alone together, she’d let him get to second base for the very first time. She’d heard that some girls went all the way on prom night, she’d even heard that this was a tradition, but she wasn’t ready for that. Still, she had to admit, she liked the feeling of his hand on her bare flesh, and for a brief moment she actually considered letting him progress to third base. But she controlled herself – third base would have to wait till he gave her his fraternity pin.

She was surprised when he showed up at her home at ten the next morning, early for a Saturday after such a late night. She was up – Beth, with all the typical impatience of a twelve-year-old, wanted all the details of the big event and wouldn’t let her sleep late.

Opening the door to Johnny, she could see right away that something was up.

‘I have to tell you something,’ he said. ‘My dad, he got me a summer job, working for a congressman.’ He took a deep breath, and then added, ‘In Washington DC.’ He swallowed, and more information came out in a rush. ‘I’ll be away all summer. I found out last week. I didn’t want to tell you right away, so we could have a great prom, but now . . .’ his voice trailed off, and he looked at her anxiously.

Obviously he thought she’d be upset that he wouldn’t be there for lazy afternoons by the pool at the country club, evening barbecues, day trips to the lake. But there was something he didn’t know.

She hadn’t even told her family the news yet, maybe because it still didn’t seem real to her. Months earlier, when she’d applied for the Gloss magazine intern programme, she wasn’t even sure why she was doing it. She’d never considered journalism as a career goal. She’d never really thought about careers much at all. But for some strange reason she kept finding herself turning back to the page in her favourite magazine that encouraged readers to spend a summer in New York and learn about magazine work. And on one weeknight evening, when there was nothing to watch on TV, she’d filled out the form. Then she went through the essays she’d written for classes and picked one to submit with her application.

There was nothing remarkable about this particular essay. She’d received an A, but that wasn’t unusual for her. The assignment, which had been given by Mrs Jackson, her English teacher, was to choose a holiday, any holiday, and write about its personal meaning.

Three of her classmates wrote about Thanksgiving and how they tried to be sincerely grateful for all they had. Two of them chose Christmas, and wrote the standard ‘think about Jesus, not Santa’ essay that you saw in newspaper editorials every December. Another friend went the patriotic route and wrote about the Fourth of July. But Sherry had written about Halloween, despite the fact that she knew Mrs Jackson was deeply religious and probably didn’t approve of a holiday that was suspiciously pagan. She’d enjoyed it, writing about the one night a year when she could be someone else.

She got her A, though Mrs Jackson had scribbled a note on the paper stating that Sherry hadn’t taken the assignment very seriously. But Sherry had liked that paper; it was something she’d written to please herself.

After sending off the application, she didn’t entertain any fantasies about winning a place in the internship programme. Gloss was the most popular teen magazine in the entire country, there had to be thousands and thousands of girls who applied. She firmly put it all out of her mind and concentrated on enjoying her senior year.

When she’d received the acceptance letter, she’d read it in disbelief. And when she finally broke the news, Johnny was happy for her, relieved that she wasn’t furious with him, and maybe a little envious. Washington DC was impressive, but New York! Even her normally protective parents were pleased – worried of course, but reassured when they received the letter from Gloss explaining that the interns would be cared for and watched over. They saw it as a marvellous little adventure for Sherry to have before starting college in Atlanta and settling down to the life she was supposed to live.

Her thoughts went back to Linda’s description today of her plans for the future. With a few changes in names and places, Sherry could have presented the same plan, word for word. And again she wondered why she hadn’t wanted to spend the rest of the afternoon with those girls.

There was the assignment to do of course. She sat down at her desk, and took the cover off her new portable Smith Corona typewriter, a graduation present from her parents.

But there was something she’d promised to do first – something she should have done the evening before, but she’d been too tired.

She opened a desk drawer and retrieved the neatly wrapped box she’d been given at the airport yesterday. She knew what it contained – all the kids in the family got a box like this when they went away from home.

Knowing her mother’s taste, she unwrapped the box with some trepidation. But it wasn’t too bad – the stationery set consisted of cream-coloured paper with a border of pink cherry blossoms, and envelopes in the same shade of pink. She took out a sheet and picked up her pen. Personal letters had to be written by hand of course.

In proper letter-writing style, she wrote ‘6 July, 1963’ in the upper right-hand corner of the paper, and on the left side she put the return address: Cavendish Residence for Women, 642 East 58th Street, New York 24, New York.

Dear everyone, Well, here I am, safe and sound, on Manhattan Island, New York City.

Of course, they already knew she’d arrived safely. At the pay phone in the residence lobby, she did what people always did to avoid paying the outrageous long-distance phone charges. She’d dialed ‘0’, asked the operator to make a person-to-person collect call to a Miss Taylor and gave the phone number of her family home.

She could hear the phone ringing and then her mother’s anxious voice.

‘Hello?’

The operator spoke. ‘I have a person-to-person collect call for Miss Taylor. Will you accept the charges?’

Sherry could have sworn she heard her mother exhale in relief before she said, ‘Miss Taylor isn’t here at the moment, could you ask the party to call later?’

There was no one named Taylor living in the Forrester household, and Sherry had no idea how that particular name had come to be employed. But that was their signal, the name that was used to indicate that a family member had arrived at his or her destination, and all was well.

I know I promised to write the first night, but it was just impossible. I only had an hour to unpack, shower and change my clothes before the formal dinner. By the way, Mama, the pink dress was perfect.

They’d both been a little worried about that, not knowing exactly how dressy the welcome dinner would be. She didn’t want to look too casual, but at the same time, being overdressed would have been just as great a sin. And there was the question of sophistication too. Pink might seem too young, but it was her colour, and Gloss magazine itself had declared in last month’s issue that pastels were very important this season. And looking around the table at the dinner, seeing other girls in pastel knits, she’d felt quite comfortable.

Naturally the editors looked much more sophisti-cated – one wore a Jackie Kennedy-style suit with a boxy jacket, and at least three of them were in terribly chic little black dresses. The men, of course, were in suits.

There were a couple of interns who looked a little odd. The petite redhead had worn a black pencil skirt and black top, which was pretty unusual. Sherry never saw girls their age wearing black. The platinum blonde had been decked out in a shiny low-cut red cocktail dress, totally inappropriate.

But by far the worst was her roommate. As a regular reader of Gloss, Sherry knew beige was all wrong for Donna’s sallow complexion and mousy-brown hair. The shirtdress needed ironing, and the style, while OK for daytime, hadn’t been dressy enough for the occasion.

We had dinner at the famous Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, and the food was delicious! We had something called a Waldorf salad, which had apples and celery and walnuts in it. Then we had beef stroganoff – Mama, you absolutely must get a recipe for this. There were real French pastries for dessert.

After dinner we all gave our names and said something about ourselves, like our hobbies or where we came from. I’m the only girl from the South. Miss Margo Meredith, the editor-in-chief, gave a speech.

She wasn’t planning to go into detail about the speech – actually, she’d been too excited or too exhausted to remember it all that well. What she did remember was the intimidating woman herself. She’d been editor of Gloss since, well, forever, and she had to be over fifty years old but she certainly didn’t look it. The girl she now knew as Pamela had been sitting next to Sherry and she’d whispered ‘facelift’ in her ear. Maybe so, but the woman was very striking, with shiny black hair pulled back in a tight chignon. Her make-up was perfect too, almost frighteningly so – Cleopatra eyes and dark red lips. It made Sherry think of the evil queen in the Snow White movie. She wore a simple black sheath, with large gold earrings and a strand of gold beads.

She gave a sort of flat ‘welcome to Gloss’ speech, and then promptly disappeared. Her place had been taken by Caroline Davison, also a very cosmopolitan-looking woman, but not quite so intimidating, more elegantly cool, like Grace Kelly or the actress in that scary movie about the birds going wild.

Of course, we won’t have much to do with Miss Meredith. Our boss is the managing editor, Caroline Davison. She seems very nice.

Her speech, however, had been a little daunting.

‘I hope you all realize how very lucky you are to be here. We had over ten thousand applications for the summer-apprenticeship programme at Gloss this year, and you eight are the recipients of this prestigious opportunity. You were judged on the basis of the writing samples you submitted, so you must have some talent. But talent isn’t enough to guarantee a successful summer here. You will have to work very, very hard. You must be disciplined, observant, obedient, very careful and, above all, punctual.’

Sherry had noticed a couple of girls squirming or looking a little uncomfortable, and she’d wondered which of those requirements scared them. She was also a little unnerved . . . she had come here expecting a fun adventure. Now it seemed she’d have to start thinking about it as an actual job.

All the staff we’ve met seem very nice. The magazine photographer, David Barnes, is soooo handsome! Honestly, he looks just like Rock Hudson. But don’t worry, Daddy, he’s at least thirty years old so he won’t be interested in me, and I promise not to flirt with him!

My roommate is Donna, she wrote, and then stopped again. What could she possibly say about someone she knew absolutely nothing about? When Sherry had asked about her hometown, she’d only said something vague like, ‘Up north.’ Sherry could only guess she’d meant somewhere like Maine or Vermont. Maybe even Canada.

There was something else strange too. The other girls had dragged big suitcases into the residence, and some had also carried hairdryers and typewriters. One girl even had a portable television. All Donna brought with her was a small backpack.

Donna’s quiet, and she didn’t take up much of the closet space. The other apprentices seem very nice.

Nice . . . what a meaningless word. But did she really want to go into details here? How could she describe Pamela without letting her mother think Sherry would be hanging out with a slut? And describing Allison would make the redhead sound like a beatnik. Dressed in black, the boyish haircut, and that awful burlap bag she toted . . .

She moved on quickly to write about the residence hall.

It’s a very safe place, with a doorman on duty twenty-four hours a day. No men are allowed beyond the lobby. And there are curfews of course. We have to be in the building by eleven on weeknights, midnight on weekends. I haven’t seen much of New York yet, but a couple of interns and I went to Times Square today.

She hesitated for a second, and then added, It was interesting. That was all she was going to tell them about that particular adventure.

At ‘Gloss’ today, we were shown a new movie for teens on a projector in a conference room. Now we have to write a review of it, so I’d better get to work. Kiss Beth for me, lots of love, Sherry Ann.

She put the letter in an envelope, addressed it, sealed it and applied a stamp. Then she went back to her typewriter, inserted a sheet of paper into the rollers and typed the heading in capital letters.

BEACH BLANKET KISSES

A REVIEW BY SHERRY FORRESTER

That was as far as she got before a rumble in her stomach told her it was dinnertime. She’d assumed her roommate would be back by now and they’d go to dinner together. But maybe some of the other interns would be in the dining hall.

Quickly she washed her hands, rubbed a little pressed powder on her shiny nose and added a touch of pastel pink lipstick. A massive dose of hairspray that morning had kept her light brown chin-length flip from frizzing, but she was a little worried about her bangs. Shading her eyes with one hand, she sprayed the fringe that covered her forehead. Then she fled the bathroom to escape the pungent odour of the hairspray.

Downstairs, the dining room wasn’t very crowded. She went through the buffet line, selected meat loaf and a salad, and then scanned the room.

According to the Cavendish pamphlet, the residence was designed to give young single working girls a safe and comfortable home. Looking around at the tables, she tried to imagine what the women sitting there did for a living. Secretaries, she imagined. Or teachers maybe. Women waiting to meet Mr Right. She figured there was probably a big turnover of residents, as girls left to get married.

She didn’t see Diane or Linda, but she did spot one of her fellow interns – Allison, the tiny redhead, still in black. She sat alone, her face buried in a book as she ate. Sherry moved over to her table.

‘May I join you?’ she asked politely.

Allison looked up. ‘Please do.’ She took one last longing look at the page she’d been reading, then she put a bookmark in and closed the book.

‘What are you reading?’ Sherry asked as she sat down.

‘To Kill a Mockingbird,’ Allison told her. ‘Do you know it?’

‘I’ve heard of it,’ Sherry said carefully.

‘Didn’t you see the movie?’

Sherry found herself giving undue attention to the cutting of her meat loaf. ‘It didn’t play in my hometown.’

‘It’s about racism,’ Allison said.

Sherry nodded.

Allison cocked her head thoughtfully. ‘You’re from the South, aren’t you?’

Sherry nodded. ‘Georgia.’ And then she added quickly, ‘But I’m not a racist. I’m totally in favour of integration.’ As the words left her mouth, it dawned on her that she’d never said that before out loud. Back home, it was something adults spoke about in whispers, and teens not at all.

‘How about interracial dating?’

Sherry was taken aback. ‘I – I don’t know. I guess I’ve never thought about that.’

Allison reached into her burlap bag thing and pulled out a copy of Gloss. She slapped it on the table and opened it to the table of contents.

‘“Inter-faith dating – what’s your opinion?”’ she read aloud. She shook her head. ‘I mean, really! Is that such a big deal? Maybe a hundred years ago. Nobody cares about that any more. This is a very old-fashioned magazine.’

Sherry didn’t know what to say. A girl she knew had gone out with a Jewish boy, and her parents threw a hissy fit. So yes, for some people it was a big deal. Not to Allison, obviously.

‘Where are you from?’ she asked.

‘Boston.’

‘I guess people are more liberal there,’ Sherry remarked.

‘Ha. Not in my family.’

The way she said that, wrinkling her nose, made Sherry wonder about Allison’s background. But of course it was much too soon in their relationship to bring up anything personal, so she changed the subject.

‘What did you think of that movie we saw?’

‘It was stupid,’ Allison declared. ‘Just another beach movie.’

‘Well, it couldn’t compare with A Summer Place, that’s for sure,’ said Sherry.

‘I never saw it,’ Allison said.

‘Really?’ Sherry found that hard to believe. It had been the number-one teen movie just a couple of years ago. ‘Troy Donahue and Sandra Dee, making out on the beach? It was positively dreamy.’

Allison grimaced. ‘Sounds like typical teen fodder.’

‘Well, there was an adult romance too, between the girl’s father and the boy’s mother,’ Sherry added. ‘And it was based on a book. It was actually a pretty mature movie.’

‘Have you seen Jules and Jim?’ Allison asked.

Sherry shook her head.

‘It’s about a love affair between two men and a woman. It’s in French, it’s black and white and it’s artistic. That’s the kind of movie Gloss should be writing about. Not this squeaky-clean, unrealistic, goody-goody garbage.’ She began flipping through the pages of the magazine.

‘I mean, look at all this junk! How to throw a theme party. What to wear to the prom. Who’s your favourite TV doctor hero? My summer at cheerleading camp. And the ads! I counted five ads for silverware patterns. As if that’s the most important thing on our minds – what kind of knives and forks we want when we get married.’

Sherry’s lips twitched. She didn’t think this was the moment to announce her own silverware choice, ‘Prelude’ by International Sterling. Nor did she mention her two weeks at a cheerleading camp last summer. Instead she asked a question.

‘If you think Gloss is so stupid, why do you want to work for it?’

‘To change it,’ Allison replied promptly. ‘To bring it up to date, to make the editors realize that the world is changing. You know what they should include? Poetry. Articles about folk music, experimental theatre, modern dance. The civil rights movement.’

Sherry considered this. ‘I guess that could be interesting,’ she offered. Though not to anyone I know, she added silently.

‘And all this “meeting Mr Right” junk. How to talk to a boy, should you kiss on the first date? Who needs this kind of advice?’

At least Sherry could respond honestly to this. ‘Not me. I’ve been with the same guy for three years.’

‘So you’re serious?’

She nodded. ‘We’ve talked about getting married after we both graduate from college.’

‘Wow, you’ve planned that far in advance?’

‘Kind of,’ Sherry said, catching the look of disapproval on Allison’s face. She supposed this kind of life wouldn’t appeal to a rebel beatnik type. But she was spared any further indication of Allison’s disapproval by the arrival of Pamela.

‘Hey, roomie,’ Allison greeted her. ‘You don’t look very happy.’

‘And where are your bags?’ Sherry asked. ‘I thought you were going to shop.’

‘Do you know what things cost in this city?’ Pamela moaned. ‘Even with the discount coupons, I couldn’t afford anything.’ She reached in her bag. ‘I did pick up this.’ She showed them a lipstick, and then, using the back of a spoon as a mirror, she applied it. In Sherry’s opinion, the fuchsia pink only made her look even more inappropriate. But she admired the fancy gold-coloured case.

‘Was it expensive?’

‘Probably.’ Pamela grinned. ‘I didn’t pay for it.’

Sherry tried very hard not to look shocked, but she didn’t do a very good job of it.

‘Don’t worry, I only take little things,’ Pamela assured her. ‘And never from friends.’

‘These department stores deserve to be ripped off,’ declared Allison. ‘They overcharge. You better be careful though.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t try to take anything like clothes,’ Pamela said. She grinned again. ‘I don’t have a handbag big enough to stash them in. So what were you two talking about?’

‘Sherry was telling me about her boyfriend,’ Allison told her. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Johnny.’

‘They’re going to get married when she graduates from college.’

‘Really?’ Pamela shook her head. ‘That’s tragic.’

Sherry was completely taken aback. ‘Why do you say that? I’ll be twenty-two. That’s old enough to marry.’

‘It’s still too young,’ Pamela declared. ‘You’ll be in your best years. Why do you want to throw them away?’ She reached into her handbag and pulled out a dog-eared paperback book. ‘It’s all in here. How you don’t need a husband for your best years, you just need men, and the more men you can know, the more fun you’ll have.’

Sherry’s mouth fell open, and Allison burst out laughing. Pamela beamed, and showed them the cover. ‘Sex and the Single Girl, by Helen Gurley Brown. It’s my new bible.’

Sherry found her voice. ‘Are you saying you want to have affairs?’

‘Sure. Why not?’

‘Well . . . a man won’t buy the cow if the milk is free.’

Pamela rolled her eyes and Allison started laughing again. Then Sherry had to laugh too. Thinking about it, it sounded pretty silly, comparing women and sex to cows and milk.

‘It’s what my mother says anyway.’

‘My mother’s always hitting me with her words of wisdom too,’ Pamela offered. ‘Her favourite is the one about how it’s just as easy to love a rich man as a poor man. Actually, I can go along with that. But that business about free milk . . .’ she shook her head. ‘I mean, men have affairs before they’re married. And sometimes after. Why can’t women?’

Sherry had an answer for that. ‘Because men can’t get pregnant.’

‘Women don’t have to get pregnant either,’ Allison pointed out. ‘Have you heard of the pill?’

‘Well, sure, but . . .’ Sherry hesitated. She’d only just met these girls, and she felt very strange bringing up a topic she’d only discussed with her closest friends. Still, she was curious. ‘Don’t you want to be a virgin when you get married?’

Pamela responded with a mysterious smile. Sherry’s eyebrows shot up and she leaned forward.

‘You’re not a virgin?’ she asked in a whisper.

‘Well, technically I am,’ Pamela admitted. ‘Only because I wasn’t about to give myself to any of the jerks I went out with back home. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to stay that way. I plan on meeting some very interesting men here in New York.’

‘I’m a virgin,’ Allison said. ‘But I think I’d have sex before I get married, if I really loved the guy.’ She turned to Sherry. ‘You’re really going to hold out until your wedding night?’

‘Well, maybe after we’re officially engaged, and we’ve set a date . . .’

Pamela grinned. ‘And you’ve rented the hall and made a non-refundable deposit to the caterer? So it’s too late for Johnny to back out?’

She was putting it rather crudely, but she made a good point. Sherry nodded. ‘Yeah, that’s about it.’

‘Well, you can still have some fun here in New York without having an affair,’ Pamela said, and then sighed. ‘But I don’t know how I’m going to get myself outfitted for New York nightlife.’

‘There’s still the samples closet,’ Sherry reminded her. ‘You’ll just have to convince Miss Davison you’ve got a lot of “extraordinary events” to attend.’

‘Speaking of extraordinary events,’ Allison said, ‘I’m going to go down to Greenwich Village tonight. Anyone want to come with me?’

‘What’s in Greenwich Village?’ Sherry asked.

‘It’s supposed to be a real scene. Clubs, music . . .’

Pamela brightened. ‘I’m in.’

‘Not me,’ Sherry said. ‘I have to write that review.’

‘It’s just two pages,’ Allison pointed out. ‘You could write it in the morning. It only took me an hour this afternoon.’

Sherry was torn. If only she’d done the assignment that afternoon instead of going to Times Square with Linda and Diane. She suspected an evening with these two would be much more interesting.

Reluctantly she shook her head. ‘I hate to wait till the last minute to do an assignment. I won’t be able to sleep tonight, thinking about it.’

‘Good grief,’ Pamela said. ‘You really are a good girl. I’ll bet you’re the type who always turned in her homework on time.’ The teasing smile on her face took any sting out of the words.

‘Guilty as charged,’ Sherry admitted.

‘And you’ve got your future all mapped out,’ Allison mused. ‘Do you always stick to your plans?’

‘Pretty much.’ Sherry offered them both a rueful smile. ‘Guess I sound like a real bore, huh?’

‘It certainly wouldn’t hurt to loosen up a bit,’ said Pamela.

Would she ever get used to being around people who spoke their minds so freely? ‘Anyway, I should spend some time with my roommate. We haven’t talked much.’

‘I don’t think Donna said a word all day,’ said Allison.

‘She looks like a scared rabbit,’ Pamela commented. ‘A real wuss.’

For some reason Sherry felt compelled to defend the girl. ‘She’s probably just shy,’ she said. ‘I’ll get her to open up. Have fun tonight, you two.’

She went upstairs to her room. Locked. She rapped on the door.

She could hear movement inside. And then a voice. ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s just me. Sherry. Your roommate. I don’t have my key.’

Donna opened the door, murmured a greeting that Sherry couldn’t hear and then went over to her bed. She sat on the edge of it and eyed Sherry warily.

‘What have you been up to?’ Sherry asked casually.

‘Nothing much. Just looking around.’

‘Have you had dinner yet?’

Donna shook her head.

‘Don’t get the meat loaf,’ Sherry advised. ‘It’s very dry.’

‘Was it expensive?’

Sherry was puzzled. ‘We don’t pay for food here, Donna. Unless we eat out of course. We don’t get any salary, but the room and the meals are free. That was all in the introductory packet. Didn’t you get one?’

‘I guess I didn’t read it very closely,’ she said. She got up and swung the backpack over her shoulder.

‘I don’t think you’ll need to lug that to the dining hall,’ Sherry pointed out.

‘I like to keep it with me,’ Donna murmured as she walked out. ‘See you later.’

Maybe she believed the place was full of thieves, Sherry thought. That would explain why she wanted to keep the door locked and carry her things with her all the time. She couldn’t think of any other explanation.

Sherry turned to the typewriter and examined the one line she’d typed so far.

BEACH BLANKET KISSES

A REVIEW BY SHERRY FORRESTER

Now that she thought about it, she realized Allison had made a good point. The movie was pretty much like every other musical beach movie she’d seen. Boy meets girl on the beach, he sings a song about her, she sings a song about him. They fall in love, sing a song together, then something happens to break them up. Then it all turns out to be a misunderstanding, and in the end they get back together. And sing another song.

But the songs were cute, and when the girl thought the boy had stood her up on a date, her heartbreak was pretty convincing. Sherry’s fingers hovered over the keys, and then dropped. She needed inspiration.

She reached over and turned on the clock radio she’d put at the other end of the desk. Fiddling with the dials, she finally located a rock ’n’ roll station, and a tune she recognized filled the room. She sank back in her chair and smiled.

It was the song about the ‘itsy bitsy teenie weenie yellow polka dot bikini’, and immediately an image of the lake back home appeared in her mind. Just a few weeks ago, the first week of summer vacation, there’d been a heatwave and the gang had spent just about every day there. There was a little snack bar on the shore that had a jukebox, and that song seemed to be playing constantly. Friends were always teasing her, because by pure coincidence she just happened to have bought a yellow polka-dot bathing suit this summer. It wasn’t really an itsy-bitsy bikini, more like a modest two-piece, but still, every time the song came on, people looked in her direction. Johnny hadn’t left for Washington yet so he was there, and he couldn’t take his eyes off her . . .

The minute the song finished, her hands went back to the keys. Once she’d decided on the point of her review, the sentences began to take shape. As always happened when she was writing, time and place faded away and she went into some sort of inner world where nothing but ideas, words and phrases existed. She’d just put her third sheet of paper into the typewriter when another popular tune came on the radio, and made her pause.

Johnny Angel, how I love him . . .

She looked at the framed photo on the desk, the first thing she’d unpacked the day before. He really was special – so handsome, with soft wavy brown hair and a square jaw with the cutest little cleft in his chin, just like Cary Grant. When they met, they’d been sophomores, the same age and perfectly matched. They liked the same music, the same movies, the same TV shows. He was the quarterback on the football team; she was a cheerleader.

Everyone thought they made the ideal couple. Some day they’d make beautiful brown-haired blue-eyed babies – that’s what all her friends said. He was a nice boy from a good family, and her parents had approved of him from the start. And even though a marriage wouldn’t happen for at least another four or five years, she’d spent hours with her mother poring over Gloss or another magazine, looking at silverware patterns, china patterns, bridal gowns, debating whether her wedding colours should be pink and white or something else. How many bridesmaids? Which one would be maid of honour? What kind of flowers would she carry? Would they hold the reception at the country club or the new Hilton hotel? And where would they go on their honeymoon?

And why was she now experiencing the twinge of an incipient headache?

She finished the first draft of her review, and then read the sheets carefully. Seeing several places that she thought could use improvement, she went back to work on a second draft. When she was finished, she was surprised to see that it was only nine o’clock. But a wave of tiredness came over her, and she had yet to roll her hair.

Sitting on the bed after her shower, with the bag of rollers in front of her, she sectioned her hair with a rat-tail comb, wound the locks around the bristle-filled tubes. She imagined Linda and Diane sitting on their beds doing the same thing and wondered what Donna was doing. Pamela and Allison were probably still in Greenwich Village. And her thoughts went back to that strange discussion at the dinner table.

Had she really come across as boring, with her talk of future plans? And why did she care what they thought of her, those two girls who were so clearly not her kind of people?

There was nothing wrong with being a good girl and following the rules, she told herself as she climbed into bed and shut off the light. It was perfectly OK to plan for your future. And Daddy always said, ‘When you have a plan, you stick to it.’ She’d heard that a million times.

Only tonight as she drifted off to sleep, for the first time ever, she heard her own voice in her head, talking back to her father.

‘But what if I didn’t write the plan?’